You Could Be Happy
by be bright
Summary: The three words that could change everything were said. Can one phone call take it all back? AAML
1. The Break

Well, hello there! This is my first fanfic (er, songfic?) ever, so…ahhh! It took me forever to finally submit this...I am a horrible procrastinator, and writer's block plagues me. (Just like almost everyone else, eh?)

The song lyrics featured throughout the story (they're in bold italics) are from "You Could Be Happy" by Snow Patrol.  
Thoughts are italicized.

Enjoy (or not)!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pokémon and the characters of Pokémon.

* * *

Angry shouts.  
Thoughtless words.  
A door slammed.  
He was gone.

_**You could be happy and I won't know  
But you weren't happy the day I watched you go**_

_What were we arguing about? Oh, that's right—he needed to travel again, and this time I couldn't go with him.  
Why am I so _damn _selfish?_

_**And all the things that I wish I had not said  
Are played on lips 'til it's madness in my head**_

Misty placed her head in her hands and cried for the third time that morning. She and Ash Ketchum had finally gotten together after he had acquired the title of Pokémon Master. It started off as one of those cheesy, chick-flick-esque beginnings; when Ash was announced the winner, he ran to Misty, yelling in front of millions in the stadium and on national TV, "Misty Williams, will you go out with me?!"  
_Of course _she said yes.  
When they started going out, they had ignored one important thing: Ash had to start traveling again, and Misty still had to maintain the Cerulean gym, which meant they had to be very far from each other for a very long time. So when the time came, they didn't consider the idea of talking (instead of yelling) through their differences. They didn't think about growing up. Misty closed her eyes and tried not to remember.

"_Misty, I_ need_ to go. Being a Pokémon Master isn't just a title, it's my job and—"  
She cut Ash off. "So you're leaving me now? We're finally together and you're leaving me?"  
_"_Yes—well—no! No, I'm just _leaving_! I…I…" He didn't know what to say. What the hell was he supposed to say? His passion was Pokémon, but he was passionate about Misty, too. "This is my job, Misty. No, it's more than that—this is my responsibility! You have to understand!"  
Misty snorted. "Oh, I understand—I'm second now." No reply. He couldn't look at her. "Fine," she started, her voice quivering with anger and despair. "Fine. Leave! Don't come back. We shouldn't have gone into this anyway." She paused for a moment before she muttered three words that cut into Ash like a white-hot blade: "I hate you."  
_It was a mistake. Apologies ran desperately through her head but couldn't find a way out her mouth. _I didn't mean that! Ash, I love you! _But before she could take another breath to start, he had already left.  
_**  
Is it too late to remind you how we were?  
But not our last days of silent, screaming blur**_

"I'm so stupid!" Misty couldn't stop crying. She was crying every day, she wasn't hungry, her friends and Pokémon were worried about her…Was this depression?  
_"I hate you." _The scene kept playing in her head. Why she _say _that?  
She was afraid. She was afraid that he'd forget about her; that he'd leave her behind like others in her life did. She loved him. Whether he loved her back or not, she didn't know. _Probably_ _not, after all those things I said, _she thought bitterly.  
She missed him terribly; photographs were all she had now. The last five weeks (minus the last few days) were pure bliss. Why was she always so rash, so insensitive?  
_Misty Williams, you are too proud._ _Ash shouldn't be with someone like me,_ she thought with a sob.  
_"So now I'm second?" _How could she say that? She knew how much he loved Pokémon…and how much he loved her.

_**Most of what I remember makes me sure  
I should have stopped you from walking out the door**_

_**You could be happy; I hope you are  
You made me happier than I'd been by far**_

Misty stood from her bed and walked into the living room. His jacket was still on the couch. She could almost feel herself in his arms…  
She cried harder. _God, I'm pathetic._

_**Somehow everything I own smells of you  
And for the tiniest moment it's all not true**_

_Maybe I should call him and tell him that I'm sorry. Or—or maybe it's better this way._ She looked at the videophone. If it were a person, it would have been staring intently back at her, saying…  
"Misty, just call him," a male voice said. She jumped. Did the videophone just speak to her? She was going nuts! She turned around.  
"Oh," Misty breathed a sigh of relief. It was Brock. When did he come in? She hadn't even heard him enter. He had been visiting her every day, taking care of her like a parent would take care of a sick child. She mustered up a faint, sad chuckle. "Hey, Brock. I thought the vid-phone was talking to me." She noticed her face was dry and tight from crying and touched it. _Ouch._  
Brock smiled, too. "Just call him, Misty. I know you don't want to hear this, but you're a wreck."  
She appreciated his frankness but shook her head. "No," she said slowly. "No. He probably wouldn't want to speak to me anyway."

_**Do the things that you always wanted to  
Without me there to hold you back, don't think, just do**_

_**More than anything I want to see you go  
Take a glorious bite out of the whole world**_

After a short pause, Brock said, "I don't want to get too involved, but…Ash might not be doing as well as you think he is. Misty, just call him. Please. Do the world a favor and _call him_." With that, he turned and exited the room as silently as he entered it.  
Misty stared at the videophone again. For an inanimate object, it was quite intimidating. She just stood there and stared for a while. What was she going to say to him? What if he was busy? What if—what if he didn't want to talk to her? That would be understandable.  
No. She had to stop being so paranoid! She had to do this. She had to at least say she was sorry (she never liked admitting she was wrong). She had to overcome her fear…and, mostly, her pride.  
After what felt like years in front of the phone, she picked up the receiver with a trembling hand. She dialed the number and waited with intense apprehension.

"Hello?" It was him! What was he feeling? She couldn't tell.  
"Ash?" Misty began, new tears streaming down her puffy face.  
Were those tears in _his _eyes, too?  
"Ash, I'm so sorry…"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Yep, so that was it! Please review with comments, suggestions, etc., in case I decide to ever write a fanfic again. :) 


	2. Epilogue

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Due to popular suggestion (and by "popular" I mean the few who reviewed my story ;P), I have decided to write a second chapter to my story...yes, a very long time later. I warn you, though: it's an EPILOGUE, which means "the end, I swear." I hope you like it, because I like it! I typed up the first draft and kind of forgot about it, until now. Heheh. I hope it does the whole story justice. I was contemplating submitting this as a separate story, and then people could link the two if they wanted, but then I'd have to give more backstory, blah blah...oh well, I can always change my mind.

* * *

The doorbell rang at exactly two.

(We had planned this meeting two days ago last week because the both of us were busy until then.)

It was the phone call, really, that had restarted my life: I apologized and poured my tattered heart to him; he accepted it as tearfully and had some confessions to offer as well.

I _do_ realize that I had reacted quite dramatically to our separation. It really _was_ something out of a soap opera. Who needed the tears and the depression? But of course this is the view of a person that had tripped out of love and was approaching its path once again.

By six o' clock in the morning on THE day I was on my hands and knees, cleaning every crevice of my house despite the fact that we'd be eating out. Nineties love songs blared out of my speakers, and I painfully admit that I crooned passionately along to every "I love you baby"—I just couldn't wait to see him.

Then it was eight o' clock in the morning, and I decided spontaneously that I did not like the outfit I had gotten the day before; I needed something much simpler, something that I thought didn't cry "I've been so lost without you—please take me back!" So I stopped by the mall and bought this cute little white blouse that I thought would make me look positively heavenly. Then I ran to the shoe store to buy myself a pair of sandals because I thought my pumps were too frilly. (Besides, I always thought heels were a little pretentious.)

After my impulsive shopping spree (I decided that, since I was there, I might as well buy some other things too) it was about eleven forty-five, and I began to freak out because I wasn't sure if two and a quarter hours was enough time to get ready and get calm. I hastily snipped the tags off my clothes and, after spending about an hour to make sure my makeup and hair looked as natural and relaxed as possible, ran around the house like a maniac to make sure everything was in place—and can I remind you that we weren't even going to be in the house when he came?

It was ten to two, and I was getting _really_ restless. By this time I had checked my outfit for stray threads a few times and rolled lots of imaginary lint off as well.

Now that my mind wasn't being occupied with "natural" makeup and blouses (blice?) and hair irons, I could only think of him.

_Will he like how I look?_

_Am I too overdone?  
What will he look like?_

_Will _he_ be overdone?_

_What if we were going somewhere fancy, and we _had_ to dress up? No, no—he wouldn't do that. Would he?  
_I decided then that thinking about him wasn't a good idea, so I got up to the kitchen to get myself a glass of ice cold water, but I somehow ended up with a mug of hot lemon water, which was just as good.

Then it was the final three minutes, and I swear everything went quiet—even my mind—and I was on the couch, purse at my side, feet flat on the rug, staring at the clock, the second hand ticking, echoing in my head. Inaudible memories of green fields, yellow Pokémon, pink ice cream, purple mountains tapped at my mind and I closed my eyes.

The mini grandfather clock struck two, and the doorbell rang after the last _ding!_

My eyes opened slowly, and I was perfectly calm but my heart still hummed with excitement.  
----

I open the door. It is a few seconds after two now and he is standing there, eagerly, honestly. He has no bouquet in his hand but a delicate six-petal flower—sherbet orange—that I know he picked from a field west of my city.

We are quiet, almost wordless. There are only our smiles and the flower that he says matches my outfit perfectly (he noticed!).

I take the flower and accept his extended arm. We walk out that way, hand-on-arm, like we are walking into a room of dancing people with evening gowns and top hats.

There is a lot to talk about, and I know this time we'll listen.


End file.
